My Husband, Michael Corleone
by Callisto Callispi
Summary: Kay reflects: Will anyone have the stomach to tell me that my husband, Michael Corleone, was a good man? I sometimes wonder.


**Disclaimers**: I do not own the magnificent epic that is _The Godfather_, novel nor movie. The italicized sentences are taken directly from the movie script - I intend neither plagarism nor claim of ownership. 

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**My Husband, Michael Corleone**   
_By Callisto Callispi_

Michael did not weep at the funeral. I did not expect him to. 

"I shall fear no evil . . . " 

I close my eyes. I still pray that Don Vito Corleone is blessed enough to not fear. Even despite his many sins, I hope that the afterlife will be easy for the Don. I hope that Carmella's prayers for her husband's soul had not fallen upon deaf ears. 

I hear Michael shift next to me. I assume that he is uncomfortable out here. After all, Michael always disliked being out of doors. But he seemed relieved when the service indoors was over. Michael never liked cathedrals much, even more so than standing under the naked sky. 

But he surprises me by gently twining his fingers through my own, discreetly so that no one but me notices. Or at least no one but me and his personal body guard standing rigidly behind us. 

_" . . . Luca Brasi held a gun to his head, and my father assured him that either his brains - or his signature - would be on the contract. That's a true story. That's my family, Kay. It's not me." _

I press my fingers against his and look up at him, but I catch his gaze straying towards Tom Hagen. They stare at each other solemnly, knowingly. Finally, Tom sees that I have been studying him. He nods his head and turns away to face the coffin. When I look up, Michael smiles softly down at me. The tilt of his lips assures me of his unflagging vigilance in protecting me. The coldness in his eyes doubly assures me of all of the dangers from which to be protected. 

What were they thinking about, the two of them? 

_" . . . I'm working for my father now. He's been sick, very sick."_

I respected the Don - he was an affectionate man to his family. He even spared a smile and a fond pat of the hand for me - the fair-haired, fair-skinned, non-Sicilian American. But I can not bring myself to cry over his death. And as I hate to say this, for Michael loved the Don and because the Don's death brought so much pain to Michael, I felt ice-cold relief when I heard that Vito Corleone had died. 

At _last_, I had thought. At last, this business is finished. The murdering, bribing, and manipulating . . . all finished. 

_" . . . My father's no different than any other powerful man, any man who's responsible for other people. Like a senator or a president."_

It was finished. I knew Michael would cut off this family's connection to anything unlawful. He had children now. He had a family to care for. Everyone depended on him, what with Sonny at rest and Fredo gallivanting off in Las Vegas somewhere. And he promised me. Michael Corleone does not give his word lightly. 

Within a few minutes, Michael lets go of my hand, and I follow him as he walks up to coffin of his late father and twirls a blood-red rose between his slender fingers. I assume that Michael will breeze by and toss the rose there, as coldly and fluidly as he does anything else. But again, my husband surprises me. 

He pauses momentarily and stares down at the ornate wooden case. His hand, the hand not holding the rose, twitches toward the coffin, as if he wants to rip off the lid to see if this is all but a dream. And for a moment, I see Michael's stoic mask drop to the grassy ground. His face is weary yet . . . _furious_. All traces of the content, mild-mannered young man that I had first met at Dartmouth flee before my very eyes. I watch in horror as his eyes gleam in the way the Don's did when he made his client an "offer he can't refuse." 

Then, the moment passes. His face is once again guarded, no longer angry or zealous. He tosses the red rose deferentially on top of the coffin and moves on. I and dozens of others behind me follow the suit. 

_" . . . Kay, my father's way of doing things is over, it's finished."_

"Are you all right, Michael?" I ask softly when I am at his side. 

Michael does not answer me for a moment. Then he says heavily, "I am a man who lost his father, Kay." 

I do not respond but link my arm through his. He always evades the most simple questions. 

Just then, I turn my gaze from Michael as a man approaches us. Sal Tessio. Michael tenses and my heart skips a beat when I catch the momentary expression on his face. It is the face of an assassin. 

Sal smiles at me. The smile is of a rushed quality, something that he had to forcibly conjure. "Hello, Kay. Michael, may I speak to you in private?" 

_" . . . In five years, the Corleone Family is going to be completely legitimate. Trust me. That's all I can tell you about my business."_

Michael nods sternly. He smiles down at me apologetically as he slips his arm from mine. He and Sal walk away from me and don't speak a word until they are sure that they are out of ear-shot. Of me. I stare at them silently as Sal whispers something in Michael's ear. I watch with growing anxiety as Michael nods curtly. 

For a moment, my gaze slips towards Tom. He is currently in the midst of his wife and children, trying valiently to appear as the consoling husband. But to my eyes, it is painfully obvious that his full attention is on Michael. I watch as he excuses himself from his wife and walks towards my husband. 

"Tom." 

Tom stops walking and nods at me. He waits as I come up to him. 

"What are Michael and Sal talking about?" 

He gives me a small grin. "It's nothing to concern yourself over, Kay." 

I do not answer but glare angrily at him. He keeps silent for a few seconds, the smile sliding from his lips. Finally, he does answer. "Family business, Kay. Don't worry." 

He walks away before I can question him further. 

Family business. Nothing I should worry over. 

"Oh, Kay . . . " 

I turn and face Connie. Black marks of make-up smudge her eyes. Even through her black veil, I can easily trace her tears. Without a second thought, I collect Connie's small form in my arms and whisper soothing words in her ear as she sobs quietly on my shoulder. 

"Everyone has their time, Connie. Your father was a good man. Of course he'll be content. He was a good man. Don't worry for him, Connie. Don't worry . . . " 

And despite my consoling smile and my assurances, I wonder. Will I have someone embrace me like this one day? Will someone tell me that my husband was a good man, that I should not fear for his soul? 

Sal strolls past me. He flashes a sympathetic smile in my direction before disappearing in the sea of black-garbed mourners. 

Will anyone have the stomach to tell me that my husband, Michael Corleone, was a good man? I sometimes wonder. 

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_finis_


End file.
